


Brittle

by slodwick



Series: Visitation [1]
Category: Smallville
Genre: Gen, Grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-11-14
Updated: 2002-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-19 09:44:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slodwick/pseuds/slodwick





	Brittle

The limousine slows to a stop at the end of the cemetery, directly opposite the grand monument. As he exits the warm haven of the vehicle, the cold wind accosts his naked head, like it is hungry for him. A warm-blooded sacrifice to the dying year. Lex knows he can’t stay long. Hadn’t planned on coming at all, hadn’t wanted to, but the urge had grabbed him so suddenly. It had been so powerful, a fierce need.

 _It had been too long._

The snow crunches under his shoes, thick and white, with a brittle glaze of ice on the surface. The temperature must have dropped quickly at some point, turning the mornings frozen rain into something harsher, as he sat locked in a tower of glass. Insulated. As he always was, except during these visits.

The wind blows across the surface of the snow, through the gravestones, between bare branches, whispering a song that seems to speak of his pain. Low, patient and full of ache. Like the wind mourns her, too.

 _How could it have been so long?_

He watches himself climb the icy steps, shining black and vaguely threatening. Facing the stone, he stares at the words until they blur and fade, looking through them. He has never stopped hoping that he would see something besides that other Lex. That other Lex, who gets older yet still looks the same, reflects back so stark, nearly a phantom himself, haunting this empty place. Does she still lurk inside, waiting for him just want it badly enough? Waiting for him to suffer enough at the hands of Lionel, the world, himself?

 _It was always the same._

The fading light from the smooth, gray sky reminds him that this trip must be brief. Tradition ingrained like breathing, a leather-clad hand reaches up, fingers tracing the letters carefully, clearing the windblown snow from each tiny crevice. His hand slows on the "t", hovers a little longer on the "h", not yet ready for this to be over. His other hand places a solitary white lily in the small receptacle. Finding an open flower shop hadn’t been easy, but he was a Luthor. Exceptions were always made.

Breathing in deeply, the frigid air filling his lungs is something like drowning, the sense memory he still experiences far too much. His lungs halt, breath caught for the briefest moment, followed a cold that runs through him, somehow more extreme than the air around him. Shivering, Lex pulls the collar of his long coat a little tighter around his exposed neck.

 _Why is can’t this be easier?_

That quickly, it is over. Mission accomplished, he can go home. He hesitates a moment longer, glaring hard at the chilly slab, and then turns, without thinking, following the path of his own tracks back to the car. His manner is the same now as when he’d walked to her grave. His head is down, shoulders hunched in some supposed protection from the cold, his lips in a tight line. The only difference now is the tears bitten back, frosting his eyelashes, each blink feeling crisp.

He waves the driver back inside as he approaches. Reaching for the handle, he pulls open the door. He feels the welcoming warmth of the interior, soft lighting and smooth leather beckoning. Before he lowers himself onto the seat, he looks back at the graveyard. He sees Ryan's words here, this world all shades of gray.

Empty and cold.

His world now.

 _Merry Christmas, Mother._


End file.
